Chapter 1

The Adventure of “The Western Star”

I was standing at the window of Poirot’s rooms looking out idly on
the street below.

“That’s queer,” I ejaculated suddenly beneath my breath.

“What is, _mon ami_?” asked Poirot placidly, from the depths of
his comfortable chair.

“Deduce, Poirot, from the following facts! Here is a young lady,
richly dressed—fashionable hat, magnificent furs. She is coming
along slowly, looking up at the houses as she goes. Unknown to her,
she is being shadowed by three men and a middle-aged woman. They
have just been joined by an errand boy who points after the girl,
gesticulating as he does so. What drama is this being played? Is
the girl a crook, and are the shadowers detectives preparing to
arrest her? Or are _they_ the scoundrels, and are they plotting to
attack an innocent victim? What does the great detective say?”

“The great detective, _mon ami_, chooses, as ever, the simplest
course. He rises to see for himself.” And my friend joined me at
the window.

In a minute he gave vent to an amused chuckle.

“As usual, your facts are tinged with your incurable romanticism.
That is Miss Mary Marvell, the film star. She is being followed by
a bevy of admirers who have recognized her. And, _en passant_, my
dear Hastings, she is quite aware of the fact!”

I laughed.

“So all is explained! But you get no marks for that, Poirot. It
was a mere matter of recognition.”

“_En vérité!_ And how many times have you seen Mary Marvell on the
screen, _mon cher_?”

I thought.

“About a dozen times perhaps.”

“And I—once! Yet _I_ recognize her, and _you_ do not.”

“She looks so different,” I replied rather feebly.

“Ah! _Sacré_!” cried Poirot. “Is it that you expect her to promenade
herself in the streets of London in a cowboy hat, or with bare
feet, and a bunch of curls, as an Irish colleen? Always with you
it is the non-essentials! Remember the case of the dancer, Valerie
Saintclair.”

I shrugged my shoulders, slightly annoyed.

“But console yourself, _mon ami_,” said Poirot, calming down. “All
cannot be as Hercule Poirot! I know it well.”

“You really have the best opinion of yourself of anyone I ever
knew!” I cried, divided between amusement and annoyance.

“What will you? When one is unique, one knows it! And others share
that opinion—even, if I mistake not, Miss Mary Marvell.”

“What?”

“Without doubt. She is coming here.”

“How do you make that out?”

“Very simply. This street, it is not aristocratic, _mon ami_! In
it there is no fashionable doctor, no fashionable dentist—still
less is there a fashionable milliner! But there _is_ a fashionable
detective. _Oui_, my friend, it is true—I am become the mode, the
_dernier cri_! One says to another: ‘_Comment?_ You have lost your
gold pencil-case? You must go to the little Belgian. He is too
marvellous! Every one goes! _Courez!’_ And they arrive! In flocks,
_mon ami_! With problems of the most foolish!” A bell rang below.
“What did I tell you? That is Miss Marvell.”

As usual, Poirot was right. After a short interval, the American
film star was ushered in, and we rose to our feet.

Mary Marvell was undoubtedly one of the most popular actresses on
the screen. She had only lately arrived in England in company with
her husband, Gregory B. Rolf, also a film actor. Their marriage
had taken place about a year ago in the States and this was their
first visit to England. They had been given a great reception.
Every one was prepared to go mad over Mary Marvell, her wonderful
clothes, her furs, her jewels, above all one jewel, the great
diamond which had been nicknamed, to match its owner, “the Western
Star.” Much, true and untrue, had been written about this famous
stone which was reported to be insured for the enormous sum of
fifty thousand pounds.

All these details passed rapidly through my mind as I joined with
Poirot in greeting our fair client.

Miss Marvell was small and slender, very fair and girlish-looking,
with the wide innocent blue eyes of a child.

Poirot drew forward a chair for her, and she commenced talking at
once.

“You will probably think me very foolish, Monsieur Poirot, but Lord
Cronshaw was telling me last night how wonderfully you cleared up
the mystery of his nephew’s death, and I felt that I just must have
your advice. I dare say it’s only a silly hoax—Gregory says so—but
it’s just worrying me to death.”

She paused for breath. Poirot beamed encouragement.

“Proceed, Madame. You comprehend, I am still in the dark.”

“It’s these letters.” Miss Marvell unclasped her handbag, and drew
out three envelopes which she handed to Poirot.

The latter scrutinized them closely.

“Cheap paper—the name and address carefully printed. Let us see
the inside.” He drew out the enclosure.

I had joined him, and was leaning over his shoulder. The writing
consisted of a single sentence, carefully printed like the envelope.
It ran as follows:

“The great diamond which is the left eye of the god must return
whence it came.”

The second letter was couched in precisely the same terms, but the
third was more explicit:

“You have been warned. You have not obeyed. Now the diamond will
be taken from you. At the full of the moon, the two diamonds which
are the left and right eye of the god shall return. So it is
written.”

“The first letter I treated as a joke,” explained Miss Marvell.
“When I got the second, I began to wonder. The third one came
yesterday, and it seemed to me that, after all, the matter might
be more serious than I had imagined.”

“I see they did not come by post, these letters.”

“No; they were left by hand—by a _Chinaman._ That is what frightens
me.”

“Why?”

“Because it was from a Chink in San Francisco that Gregory bought
the stone three years ago.”

“I see, madame, that you believe the diamond referred to to be——”

“‘The Western Star,’” finished Miss Marvell. “That’s so. At the
time, Gregory remembers that there was some story attached to the
stone, but the Chink wasn’t handing out any information. Gregory
says he seemed just scared to death, and in a mortal hurry to get
rid of the thing. He only asked about a tenth of its value. It was
Greg’s wedding present to me.”

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

“The story seems of an almost unbelievable romanticism. And yet—who
knows? I pray of you, Hastings, hand me my little almanac.”

I complied.

“_Voyons!_” said Poirot, turning the leaves.

“When is the date of the full moon? Ah, Friday next. That is in
three days’ time. _Eh bien_, madame, you seek my advice—I give it
to you. This _belle histoire_ may be a hoax—but it may not!
Therefore I counsel you to place the diamond in my keeping until
after Friday next. Then we can take what steps we please.”

A slight cloud passed over the actress’s face, and she replied
constrainedly:

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.”

“You have it with you—_hein_?” Poirot was watching her narrowly.

The girl hesitated a moment, then slipped her hand into the bosom
of her gown, drawing out a long thin chain. She leaned forward,
unclosing her hand. In the palm, a stone of white fire, exquisitely
set in platinum, lay and winked at us solemnly.

Poirot drew in his breath with a long hiss.

“_Épatant!_” he murmured. “You permit, madame?” He took the jewel
in his own hand and scrutinized it keenly, then restored it to her
with a little bow. “A magnificent stone—without a flaw. Ah, _cent
tonnerres!_ and you carry it about with you, _comme ça_!”

“No, no, I’m very careful really, Monsieur Poirot. As a rule it’s
locked up in my jewel-case, and left in the hotel safe deposit.
We’re staying at the _Magnificent_, you know. I just brought it
along to-day for you to see.”

“And you will leave it with me, _n’est-ce pas_? You will be advised
by Papa Poirot?”

“Well, you see, it’s this way, Monsieur Poirot. On Friday we’re
going down to Yardly Chase to spend a few days with Lord and Lady
Yardly.”

Her words awoke a vague echo of remembrance in my mind. Some
gossip—what was it now? A few years ago Lord and Lady Yardly had
paid a visit to the States, rumour had it that his lordship had
rather gone the pace out there with the assistance of some lady
friends—but surely there was something more, some gossip which
coupled Lady Yardly’s name with that of a “movie” star in
California—why! it came to me in a flash—of course it was none
other than Gregory B. Rolf.

“I’ll let you into a little secret, Monsieur Poirot,” Miss Marvell
was continuing. “We’ve got a deal on with Lord Yardly. There’s some
chance of our arranging to film a play down there in his ancestral
pile.”

“At Yardly Chase?” I cried, interested. “Why, it’s one of the show
places of England.”

Miss Marvell nodded.

“I guess it’s the real old feudal stuff all right. But he wants a
pretty stiff price, and of course I don’t know yet whether the deal
will go through, but Greg and I always like to combine business
with pleasure.”

“But—I demand pardon if I am dense, madame—surely it is possible
to visit Yardly Chase without taking the diamond with you?”

A shrewd, hard look came into Miss Marvell’s eyes which belied
their childlike appearance. She looked suddenly a good deal older.

“I want to wear it down there.”

“Surely” I said suddenly, “there are some very famous jewels in
the Yardly collection, a large diamond amongst them?”

“That’s so,” said Miss Marvell briefly.

I heard Poirot murmur beneath his breath: “Ah, _c’est comme ça_!”
Then he said aloud, with his usual uncanny luck in hitting the
bull’s-eye (he dignifies it by the name of psychology): “Then you
are without doubt already acquainted with Lady Yardly, or perhaps
your husband is?”

“Gregory knew her when she was out West three years ago,” said Miss
Marvell. She hesitated a moment, and then added abruptly: “Do
either of you ever see _Society Gossip_?”

We both pleaded guilty rather shamefacedly.

“I ask because in this week’s number there is an article on famous
jewels, and it’s really very curious——” She broke off.

I rose, went to the table at the other side of the room and returned
with the paper in question in my hand. She took it from me, found
the article, and began to read aloud:

“. . . Amongst other famous stones may be included the Star of the
East, a diamond in the possession of the Yardly family. An ancestor
of the present Lord Yardly brought it back with him from China,
and a romantic story is said to attach to it. According to this,
the stone was once the right eye of a temple god. Another diamond,
exactly similar in form and size, formed the left eye, and the
story goes that this jewel, too, would in course of time be stolen.
‘One eye shall go West, the other East, till they shall meet once
more. Then, in triumph shall they return to the god.’ It is a
curious coincidence that there is at the present time a stone
corresponding closely in description with this one, and known as
‘the Star of the West,’ or ‘the Western Star.’ It is the property
of the celebrated film actress, Miss Mary Marvell. A comparison of
the two stones would be interesting.”

She stopped.

“_Épatant!_” murmured Poirot. “Without doubt a romance of the first
water.” He turned to Mary Marvell. “And you are not afraid, madame?
You have no superstitious terrors? You do not fear to introduce
these two Siamese twins to each other lest a Chinaman should appear
and, hey presto! whisk them both back to China?”

His tone was mocking, but I fancied that an undercurrent of
seriousness lay beneath it.

“I don’t believe that Lady Yardly’s diamond is anything like as
good a stone as mine,” said Miss Marvell. “Anyway, I’m going to
see.”

What more Poirot would have said I do not know, for at that moment
the door flew open, and a splendid-looking man strode into the
room. From his crisply curling black head, to the tips of his
patent-leather boots, he was a hero fit for romance.

“I said I’d call round for you, Mary,” said Gregory Rolf, “and here
I am. Well, what does Monsieur Poirot say to our little problem?
Just one big hoax, same as I do?”

Poirot smiled up at the big actor. They made a ridiculous contrast.

“Hoax or no hoax, Mr. Rolf,” he said dryly, “I have advised Madame
your wife not to take the jewel with her to Yardly Chase on Friday.”

“I’m with you there, sir. I’ve already said so to Mary. But there!
She’s a woman through and through, and I guess she can’t bear to
think of another woman outshining her in the jewel line.”

“What nonsense, Gregory!” said Mary Marvell sharply. But she
flushed angrily.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“Madame, I have advised. I can do no more. _C’est fini_.”

He bowed them both to the door.

“Ah! _la la_,” he observed, returning. “_Histoire de femmes!_ The
good husband, he hit the nail on the head—_tout de même_, he was
not tactful! Assuredly not.”

I imparted to him my vague remembrances, and he nodded vigorously.

“So I thought. All the same, there is something curious underneath
all this. With your permission, _mon ami_, I will take the air.
Await my return, I beg of you. I shall not be long.”

I was half asleep in my chair when the landlady tapped on the door,
and put her head in.

“It’s another lady to see Mr. Poirot, sir. I’ve told her he was
out, but she says as how she’ll wait, seeing as she’s come up from
the country.”

“Oh, show her in here, Mrs. Murchison. Perhaps I can do something
for her.”

In another moment the lady had been ushered in. My heart gave a
leap as I recognized her. Lady Yardly’s portrait had figured too
often in the Society papers to allow her to remain unknown.

“Do sit down, Lady Yardly,” I said, drawing forward a chair. “My
friend Poirot is out, but I know for a fact that he’ll be back very
shortly.”

She thanked me and sat down. A very different type, this, from Miss
Mary Marvell. Tall, dark, with flashing eyes, and a pale proud
face—yet something wistful in the curves of the mouth.

I felt a desire to rise to the occasion. Why not? In Poirot’s
presence I have frequently felt a difficulty—I do not appear at my
best. And yet there is no doubt that I, too, possess the deductive
sense in a marked degree. I leant forward on a sudden impulse.

“Lady Yardly,” I said, “I know why you have come here. You have
received blackmailing letters about the diamond.”

There was no doubt as to my bolt having shot home. She stared at
me open-mouthed, all colour banished from her cheeks.

“You know?” she gasped. “How?”

I smiled.

“By a perfectly logical process. If Miss Marvell has had warning
letters——”

“Miss Marvell? She has been here?”

“She has just left. As I was saying, if she, as the holder of one
of the twin diamonds, has received a mysterious series of warnings,
you, as the holder of the other stone, must necessarily have done
the same. You see how simple it is? I am right, then, you have
received these strange communications also?”

For a moment she hesitated, as though in doubt whether to trust me
or not, then she bowed her head in assent with a little smile.

“That is so,” she acknowledged.

“Were yours, too, left by hand—by a Chinaman?”

“No, they came by post; but, tell me, has Miss Marvell undergone
the same experience, then?”

I recounted to her the events of the morning. She listened
attentively.

“It all fits in. My letters are the duplicates of hers. It is true
that they came by post, but there is a curious perfume impregnating
them—something in the nature of joss-stick—that at once suggested
the East to me. What does it all mean?”

I shook my head.

“That is what we must find out. You have the letters with you? We
might learn something from the postmarks.”

“Unfortunately I destroyed them. You understand, at the time I
regarded it as some foolish joke. Can it be true that some Chinese
gang are really trying to recover the diamonds? It seems too
incredible.”

We went over the facts again and again, but could get no further
towards the elucidation of the mystery. At last Lady Yardly rose.

“I really don’t think I need wait for Monsieur Poirot. You can tell
him all this, can’t you? Thank you so much, Mr.——”

She hesitated, her hand outstretched.

“Captain Hastings.”

“Of course! How stupid of me. You’re a friend of the Cavendishes,
aren’t you? It was Mary Cavendish who sent me to Monsieur Poirot.”

When my friend returned, I enjoyed telling him the tale of what
had occurred during his absence. He cross-questioned me rather
sharply over the details of our conversation and I could read
between the lines that he was not best pleased to have been absent.
I also fancied that the dear old fellow was just the least inclined
to be jealous. It had become rather a pose with him to consistently
belittle my abilities, and I think he was chagrined at finding no
loophole for criticism. I was secretly rather pleased with myself,
though I tried to conceal the fact for fear of irritating him. In
spite of his idiosyncrasies, I was deeply attached to my quaint
little friend.

“_Bien!_” he said at length, with a curious look on his face. “The
plot develops. Pass me, I pray you, that ‘Peerage’ on the top shelf
there.” He turned the leaves. “Ah, here we are! ‘Yardly . . . 10th
viscount, served South African War’ . . . _tout ça n’a pas
d’importance_ . . . ‘mar. 1907 Hon. Maude Stopperton, fourth
daughter of 3rd Baron Cotteril’ . . . um, um, um, . . . ‘has iss.
two daughters, born 1908, 1910. . . . Clubs . . . residences.’ . . .
_Voilà_, that does not tell us much. But to-morrow morning we see
this _milord_!”

“What?”

“Yes. I telegraphed to him.”

“I thought you had washed your hands of the case?”

“I am not acting for Miss Marvell since she refuses to be guided
by my advice. What I do now is for my own satisfaction—the
satisfaction of Hercule Poirot! Decidedly, I must have a finger in
this pie.”

“And you calmly wire Lord Yardly to dash up to town just to suit
your convenience. He won’t be pleased.”

“_Au contraire_, if I preserve for him his family diamond, he ought
to be very grateful.”

“Then you really think there is a chance of it being stolen?” I
asked eagerly.

“Almost a certainty,” replied Poirot placidly. “Everything points
that way.”

“But how——”

Poirot stopped my eager questions with an airy gesture of the hand.

“Not now, I pray you. Let us not confuse the mind. And observe that
‘Peerage’—how you have replaced him! See you not that the tallest
books go in the top shelf, the next tallest in the row beneath,
and so on. Thus we have order, _method_, which, as I have often
told you, Hastings——”

“Exactly,” I said hastily, and put the offending volume in its
proper place.

• • • • • • •

Lord Yardly turned out to be a cheery, loud-voiced sportsman with
a rather red face, but with a good-humoured bonhomie about him that
was distinctly attractive and made up for any lack of mentality.

“Extraordinary business this, Monsieur Poirot. Can’t make head or
tail of it. Seems my wife’s been getting odd kind of letters, and
that this Miss Marvell’s had ’em too. What does it all mean?”

Poirot handed him the copy of _Society Gossip_.

“First, _milord_, I would ask you if these facts are substantially
correct?”

The peer took it. His face darkened with anger as he read.

“Damned nonsense!” he spluttered. “There’s never been any romantic
story attaching to the diamond. It came from India originally, I
believe. I never heard of all this Chinese god stuff.”

“Still, the stone _is_ known as ‘The Star of the East.’”

“Well, what if it is?” he demanded wrathfully.

Poirot smiled a little, but made no direct reply. “What I would
ask you to do, _milord_, is to place yourself in my hands. If you
do so unreservedly, I have great hopes of averting the catastrophe.”

“Then you think there’s actually something in these wild-cat
tales?”

“Will you do as I ask you?”

“Of course I will, but——”

“_Bien!_ Then permit that I ask you a few questions. This affair
of Yardly Chase, is it, as you say, all fixed up between you and
Mr. Rolf?”

“Oh, he told you about it, did he? No, there’s nothing settled.”
He hesitated, the brick-red colour of his face deepening. “Might
as well get the thing straight. I’ve made rather an ass of myself
in many ways, Monsieur Poirot—and I’m head over ears in debt—but
I want to pull up. I’m fond of the kids, and I want to straighten
things up, and be able to live on at the old place. Gregory Rolf
is offering me big money—enough to set me on my feet again. I don’t
want to do it—I hate the thought of all that crowd play-acting
round the Chase—but I may have to, unless——” He broke off.

Poirot eyed him keenly. “You have, then, another string to your
bow? Permit that I make a guess? It is to sell the Star of the
East?”

Lord Yardly nodded. “That’s it. It’s been in the family for some
generations, but it’s not entailed. Still, it’s not the easiest
thing in the world to find a purchaser. Hoffberg, the Hatton Garden
man, is on the look-out for a likely customer, but he’ll have to
find one soon, or it’s a washout.”

“One more question, _permettez_—Lady Yardly, which plan does she
approve?”

“Oh, she’s bitterly opposed to my selling the jewel. You know what
women are. She’s all for this film stunt.”

“I comprehend,” said Poirot. He remained a moment or so in thought,
then rose briskly to his feet. “You return to Yardly Chase at once?
_Bien!_ Say no word to anyone—to _anyone_ mind—but expect us there
this evening. We will arrive shortly after five.”

“All right, but I don’t see——”

“_Ça n’a pas d’importance_,” said Poirot kindly. “You will that I
preserve for you your diamond, _n’est-ce pas_?”

“Yes, but——”

“Then do as I say.”

A sadly bewildered nobleman left the room.

• • • • • • •

It was half-past five when we arrived at Yardly Chase, and followed
the dignified butler to the old panelled hall with its fire of
blazing logs. A pretty picture met our eyes: Lady Yardly and her
two children, the mother’s proud dark head bent down over the two
fair ones. Lord Yardly stood near, smiling down on them.

“Monsieur Poirot and Captain Hastings,” announced the butler.

Lady Yardly looked up with a start, her husband came forward
uncertainly, his eyes seeking instruction from Poirot. The little
man was equal to the occasion.

“All my excuses! It is that I investigate still this affair of Miss
Marvell’s. She comes to you on Friday, does she not? I make a
little tour first to make sure that all is secure. Also I wanted
to ask of Lady Yardly if she recollected at all the postmarks on
the letters she received?”

Lady Yardly shook her head regretfully. “I’m afraid I don’t. It is
stupid of me. But, you see, I never dreamt of taking them
seriously.”

“You’ll stay the night?” said Lord Yardly.

“Oh, _milord_, I fear to incommode you. We have left our bags at
the inn.”

“That’s all right.” Lord Yardly had his cue. “We’ll send down for
them. No, no—no trouble, I assure you.”

Poirot permitted himself to be persuaded, and sitting down by Lady
Yardly, began to make friends with the children. In a short time
they were all romping together, and had dragged me into the game.

“_Vous êtes bonne mère_,” said Poirot, with a gallant little bow,
as the children were removed reluctantly by a stern nurse.

Lady Yardly smoothed her ruffled hair.

“I adore them,” she said with a little catch in her voice.

“And they you—with reason!” Poirot bowed again.

A dressing-gong sounded, and we rose to go up to our rooms. At that
moment the butler entered with a telegram on a salver which he
handed to Lord Yardly. The latter tore it open with a brief word
of apology. As he read it he stiffened visibly.

With an ejaculation, he handed it to his wife. Then he glanced at
my friend.

“Just a minute, Monsieur Poirot. I feel you ought to know about
this. It’s from Hoffberg. He thinks he’s found a customer for the
diamond—an American, sailing for the States to-morrow. They’re
sending down a chap to-night to vet the stone. By Jove, though, if
this goes through——” Words failed him.

Lady Yardly had turned away. She still held the telegram in her
hand.

“I wish you wouldn’t sell it, George,” she said, in a low voice.
“It’s been in the family so long.” She waited, as though for a
reply, but when none came her face hardened. She shrugged her
shoulders. “I must go and dress. I suppose I had better display
‘the goods.’” She turned to Poirot with a slight grimace. “It’s
one of the most hideous necklaces that was ever designed! George
has always promised to have the stones reset for me, but it’s never
been done.” She left the room.

Half an hour later, we three were assembled in the great drawing-room
awaiting the lady. It was already a few minutes past the dinner
hour.

Suddenly there was a low rustle, and Lady Yardly appeared framed
in the doorway, a radiant figure in a long white shimmering dress.
Round the column of her neck was a rivulet of fire. She stood there
with one hand just touching the necklace.

“Behold the sacrifice,” she said gaily. Her ill-humour seemed to
have vanished. “Wait while I turn the big light on and you shall
feast your eyes on the ugliest necklace in England.”

The switches were just outside the door. As she stretched out her
hand to them, the incredible thing happened. Suddenly without any
warning, every light was extinguished, the door banged, and from
the other side of it came a long-drawn piercing woman’s scream.

“My God!” cried Lord Yardly. “That was Maude’s voice! What has
happened?”

We rushed blindly for the door, cannoning into each other in the
darkness. It was some minutes before we could find it. What a sight
met our eyes! Lady Yardly lay senseless on the marble floor, a
crimson mark on her white throat where the necklace had been
wrenched from her neck.

As we bent over her, uncertain for the moment whether she were dead
or alive, her eyelids opened.

“The Chinaman,” she whispered painfully. “The Chinaman—the side
door.”

Lord Yardly sprang up with an oath. I accompanied him, my heart
beating wildly. The Chinaman again! The side door in question was
a small one in the angle of the wall, not more than a dozen yards
from the scene of the tragedy. As we reached it, I gave a cry.
There, just short of the threshold, lay the glittering necklace,
evidently dropped by the thief in the panic of his flight. I
swooped joyously down on it. Then I uttered another cry which Lord
Yardly echoed. For in the middle of the necklace was a great gap.
The Star of the East was missing!

“That settles it,” I breathed. “These were no ordinary thieves.
This one stone was all they wanted.”

“But how did the fellow get in?”

“Through this door.”

“But it’s always locked.”

I shook my head. “It’s not locked now. See.” I pulled it open as
I spoke.

As I did so something fluttered to the ground. I picked it up. It
was a piece of silk, and the embroidery was unmistakable. It had
been torn from a Chinaman’s robe.

“In his haste it caught in the door,” I explained. “Come, hurry.
He cannot have gone far as yet.”

But in vain we hunted and searched. In the pitch darkness of the
night, the thief had found it easy to make his getaway. We returned
reluctantly, and Lord Yardly sent off one of the footmen post-haste
to fetch the police.

Lady Yardly, aptly ministered to by Poirot, who is as good as a
woman in these matters, was sufficiently recovered to be able to
tell her story.

“I was just going to turn on the other light,” she said, “when a
man sprang on me from behind. He tore my necklace from my neck with
such force that I fell headlong to the floor. As I fell I saw him
disappearing through the side door. Then I realized by the pig-tail
and the embroidered robe that he was a Chinaman.” She stopped with
a shudder.

The butler reappeared. He spoke in a low voice to Lord Yardly.

“A gentleman from Mr. Hoffberg’s, m’lord. He says you expect him.”

“Good heavens!” cried the distracted nobleman. “I must see him, I
suppose. No, not here, Mullings, in the library.”

I drew Poirot aside.

“Look here, my dear fellow, hadn’t we better get back to London?”

“You think so, Hastings? Why?”

“Well”—I coughed delicately—“things haven’t gone very well, have
they? I mean, you tell Lord Yardly to place himself in your hands
and all will be well—and then the diamond vanishes from under your
very nose!”

“True,” said Poirot, rather crestfallen. “It was not one of my most
striking triumphs.”

This way of describing events almost caused me to smile, but I
stuck to my guns.

“So, having—pardon the expression—rather made a mess of things,
don’t you think it would be more graceful to leave immediately?”

“And the dinner, the without doubt excellent dinner, that the
_chef_ of Lord Yardly has prepared?”

“Oh, what’s dinner!” I said impatiently.

Poirot held up his hands in horror.

“_Mon Dieu!_ It is that in this country you treat the affairs
gastronomic with a criminal indifference.”

“There’s another reason why we should get back to London as soon
as possible,” I continued.

“What is that, my friend?”

“The other diamond,” I said, lowering my voice. “Miss Marvell’s.”

“_Eh bien_, what of it?”

“Don’t you see?” His unusual obtuseness annoyed me. What had
happened to his usually keen wits? “They’ve got one, now they’ll
go for the other.”

“_Tiens!_” cried Poirot, stepping back a pace and regarding me with
admiration. “But your brain marches to a marvel, my friend! Figure
to yourself that for the moment I had not thought of that! But
there is plenty of time. The full of the moon, it is not until
Friday.”

I shook my head dubiously. The full of the moon theory left me
entirely cold. I had my way with Poirot, however, and we departed
immediately, leaving behind us a note of explanation and apology
for Lord Yardly.

My idea was to go at once to the _Magnificent_, and relate to Miss
Marvell what had occurred, but Poirot vetoed the plan, and insisted
that the morning would be time enough. I gave in rather grudgingly.

In the morning Poirot seemed strangely disinclined to stir out. I
began to suspect that, having made a mistake to start with, he was
singularly loath to proceed with the case. In answer to my
persuasions, he pointed out, with admirable common sense, that as
the details of the affair at Yardly Chase were already in the
morning papers the Rolfs would know quite as much as we could tell
them. I gave way unwillingly.

Events proved my forebodings to be justified. About two o’clock,
the telephone rang. Poirot answered it. He listened for some
moments, then with a brief “_Bien, j’y serai_” he rang off, and
turned to me.

“What do you think, _mon ami_?” He looked half ashamed, half
excited. “The diamond of Miss Marvell, it has been stolen.”

“What?” I cried, springing up. “And what about the ‘full of the
moon’ now?” Poirot hung his head. “When did this happen?”

“This morning, I understand.”

I shook my head sadly. “If only you had listened to me. You see I
was right.”

“It appears so, _mon ami_,” said Poirot cautiously. “Appearances
are deceptive, they say, but it certainly appears so.”

As we hurried in a taxi to the _Magnificent_, I puzzled out the
true inwardness of the scheme.

“That ‘full of the moon’ idea was clever. The whole point of it
was to get us to concentrate on the Friday, and so be off our guard
beforehand. It is a pity you did not realize that.”

“_Ma foi!_” said Poirot airily, his nonchalance quite restored
after its brief eclipse. “One cannot think of everything!”

I felt sorry for him. He did so hate failure of any kind.

“Cheer up,” I said consolingly. “Better luck next time.”

At the _Magnificent_, we were ushered at once into the manager’s
office. Gregory Rolf was there with two men from Scotland Yard. A
pale-faced clerk sat opposite them.

Rolf nodded to us as we entered.

“We’re getting to the bottom of it,” he said. “But it’s almost
unbelievable. How the guy had the nerve I can’t think.”

A very few minutes sufficed to give us the facts. Mr. Rolf had gone
out of the hotel at 11.15. At 11.30, a gentleman, so like him in
appearance as to pass muster, entered the hotel and demanded the
jewel-case from the safe deposit. He duly signed the receipt,
remarking carelessly as he did so: “Looks a bit different from my
ordinary one, but I hurt my hand getting out of the taxi.” The
clerk merely smiled and remarked that he saw very little difference.
Rolf laughed and said: “Well, don’t run me in as a crook this time,
anyway. I’ve been getting threatening letters from a Chinaman, and
the worst of it is I look rather like a Chink myself—it’s something
about the eyes.”

“I looked at him,” said the clerk who was telling us this, “and I
saw at once what he meant. The eyes slanted up at the corners like
an Oriental’s. I’d never noticed it before.”

“Darn it all, man,” roared Gregory Rolf, leaning forward, “do you
notice it now?”

The man looked up at him and started.

“No, sir,” he said. “I can’t say I do.” And indeed there was
nothing even remotely Oriental about the frank brown eyes that
looked into ours.

The Scotland Yard man grunted. “Bold customer. Thought the eyes
might be noticed, and took the bull by the horns to disarm
suspicion. He must have watched you out of the hotel, sir, and
nipped in as soon as you were well away.”

“What about the jewel-case?” I asked.

“It was found in a corridor of the hotel. Only one thing had been
taken—‘the Western Star.’”

We stared at each other—the whole thing was so bizarre, so unreal.

Poirot hopped briskly to his feet. “I have not been of much use,
I fear,” he said regretfully. “Is it permitted to see Madame?”

“I guess she’s prostrated with the shock,” explained Rolf.

“Then perhaps I might have a few words alone with you, monsieur?”

“Certainly.”

In about five minutes Poirot reappeared.

“Now, my friend,” he said gaily. “To a post office. I have to send
a telegram.”

“Who to?”

“Lord Yardly.” He discounted further inquiries by slipping his arm
through mine. “Come, come, _mon ami_. I know all that you feel
about this miserable business. I have not distinguished myself!
You, in my place, might have distinguished yourself! _Bien!_ All
is admitted. Let us forget it and have lunch.”

It was about four o’clock when we entered Poirot’s rooms. A figure
rose from a chair by the window. It was Lord Yardly. He looked
haggard and distraught.

“I got your wire and came up at once. Look here, I’ve been round
to Hoffberg, and they know nothing about that man of theirs last
night, or the wire either. Do you think that——”

Poirot held up his hand.

“My excuses! I sent that wire, and hired the gentleman in question.”

“_You_—but why? What?” The nobleman spluttered impotently.

“My little idea was to bring things to a head,” explained Poirot
placidly.

“Bring things to a head! Oh, my God!” cried Lord Yardly.

“And the ruse succeeded,” said Poirot cheerfully. “Therefore,
_milord_, I have much pleasure in returning you—this!” With a
dramatic gesture he produced a glittering object. It was a great
diamond.

“The Star of the East,” gasped Lord Yardly. “But I don’t
understand——”

“No?” said Poirot. “It makes no matter. Believe me, it was necessary
for the diamond to be stolen. I promised you that it should be
preserved to you, and I have kept my word. You must permit me to
keep my little secret. Convey, I beg of you, the assurances of my
deepest respect to Lady Yardly, and tell her how pleased I am to
be able to restore her jewel to her. What _beau temps_, is it not?
Good day, _milord_.”

And smiling and talking, the amazing little man conducted the
bewildered nobleman to the door. He returned gently rubbing his
hands.

“Poirot,” I said. “Am I quite demented?”

“No, _mon ami_, but you are, as always, in a mental fog.”

“How did you get the diamond.”

“From Mr. Rolf.”

“Rolf?”

“_Mais oui!_ The warning letters, the Chinaman, the article in
_Society Gossip_, all sprang from the ingenious brain of Mr. Rolf!
The two diamonds, supposed to be so miraculously alike—bah! they
did not exist. There was only _one_ diamond, my friend! Originally
in the Yardly collection, for three years it has been in the
possession of Mr. Rolf. He stole it this morning with the assistance
of a touch of grease paint at the corner of each eye! Ah, I must
see him on the film, he is indeed an artist, _celui-là_!

“But why should he steal his own diamond?” I asked, puzzled.

“For many reasons. To begin with, Lady Yardly was getting restive.”

“Lady Yardly?”

“You comprehend she was left much alone in California. Her husband
was amusing himself elsewhere. Mr. Rolf was handsome, he had an
air about him of romance. But _au fond_, he is very business-like,
_ce monsieur_! He made love to Lady Yardly, and then he blackmailed
her. I taxed the lady with the truth the other night, and she
admitted it. She swore that she had only been indiscreet, and I
believe her. But, undoubtedly, Rolf had letters of hers that could
be twisted to bear a different interpretation. Terrified by the
threat of a divorce, and the prospect of being separated from her
children, she agreed to all he wished. She had no money of her own,
and she was forced to permit him to substitute a paste replica for
the real stone. The coincidence of the date of the appearance of
‘the Western Star’ struck me at once. All goes well. Lord Yardly
prepares to range himself—to settle down. And then comes the menace
of the possible sale of the diamond. The substitution will be
discovered. Without doubt she writes off frantically to Gregory
Rolf who has just arrived in England. He soothes her by promising
to arrange all—and prepares for a double robbery. In this way he
will quiet the lady, who might conceivably tell all to her husband,
an affair which would not suit our blackmailer at all, he will have
£50,000 insurance money (aha, you had forgotten that!), and he will
still have the diamond! At this point I put my finger in the pie.
The arrival of a diamond expert is announced. Lady Yardly, as I
felt sure she would, immediately arranges a robbery—and does it
very well too! But Hercule Poirot, he sees nothing but facts. What
happens in actuality? The lady switches off the light, bangs the
door, throws the necklace down the passage, and screams. She has
already wrenched out the diamond with pliers upstairs——”

“But we saw the necklace round her neck!” I objected.

“I demand pardon, my friend. Her hand concealed the part of it
where the gap would have shown. To place a piece of silk in the
door beforehand is child’s play! Of course, as soon as Rolf read
of the robbery, he arranged his own little comedy. And very well
he played it!”

“What did you say to him?” I asked with lively curiosity.

“I said to him that Lady Yardly had told her husband all, that I
was empowered to recover the jewel, and that if it were not
immediately handed over proceedings would be taken. Also a few more
little lies which occurred to me. He was as wax in my hands!”

I pondered the matter.

“It seems a little unfair on Mary Marvell. She has lost her diamond
through no fault of her own.”

“Bah!” said Poirot brutally. “She has a magnificent advertisement.
That is all she cares for, that one! Now the other, she is
different. _Bonne mère, très femme!_”

“Yes,” I said doubtfully, hardly sharing Poirot’s views on
femininity. “I suppose it was Rolf who sent her the duplicate
letters.”

“_Pas du tout_,” said Poirot briskly. “She came by the advice of
Mary Cavendish to seek my aid in her dilemma. Then she heard that
Mary Marvell, whom she knew to be her enemy, had been here, and
she changed her mind, jumping at a pretext that _you_, my friend,
offered her. A very few questions sufficed to show me that _you_
told her of the letters, not she you! She jumped at the chance your
words offered.”

“I don’t believe it,” I cried, stung.

“_Si, si, mon ami_, it is a pity that you study not the psychology.
She told you that the letters were destroyed? Oh, la la, _never_
does a woman destroy a letter if she can avoid it! Not even if it
would be more prudent to do so!”

“It’s all very well,” I said, my anger rising, “but you’ve made a
perfect fool of me! From beginning to end! No, it’s all very well
to try and explain it away afterwards. There really is a limit!”

“But you were so enjoying yourself, my friend. I had not the heart
to shatter your illusions.”

“It’s no good. You’ve gone a bit too far this time.”

“_Mon Dieu!_ but how you enrage yourself for nothing, _mon ami_!”

“I’m fed up!” I went out, banging the door. Poirot had made an
absolute laughing-stock of me. I decided that he needed a sharp
lesson. I would let some time elapse before I forgave him. He had
encouraged me to make a perfect fool of myself!